


Ship Wrecked

by LadySilver



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coach is a Danny/Scott shipper while Stiles prefers Scott/Isaac. They discuss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ship Wrecked

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the kinkmeme prompt that said "basically, I just want Coach and Stiles yelling 'Scanny' and 'Scissac' at each other." This is slightly expanded from the original posting because I was having entirely too much fun with it.

“You’re joking? This is a joke, right?” Stiles popped up from the bench where he’d been sitting and took a giant step toward his opponent. His breath puffed out white in front of him in the cold night air. Around him rumbled the noises of an in-progress lacrosse game.

“Stilinski, do I _look_ like I’m joking?” Finstock responded. He held his ground, his stance spread in the mark of a person who wasn’t going to be swayed no matter what. His jacket was buttoned up high under his chin and his cheeks and nose burned red from the wind. “I do not joke. I’m a teacher. My sense of humor was smothered to death by you little shits a long time ago.”

Stiles conceded that point with a slight nod, then forcibly yanked his thoughts back to what Coach had just said. “Then how can you—“

From in the stands came a shout of excitement and the surge of everyone standing up at once to see. Stiles turned toward the field just in time to see Danny, already in full run, catch the ball that Scott had whipped down the field at him.

“See!?” Coach shouted, a pointed finger targeting first Scott, then Danny. “That. That is what I’m talking about.” Danny pitched the ball smoothly into the goal and Coach and Stiles both jumped up to add to the cheer that echoed through the stands.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Stiles continued as soon as the game resumed. “They’re just trying to win. Gotta get another state championship for old BHHS, ya know.” If there was a touch of bitterness in his voice, it was only because Coach was so _clearly_ missing the obvious.

“Teamwork like that deserves to be built off the field too,” Coach replied, as if Stiles hadn’t said anything. “Teamwork like that needs to be _fed_. Nurtured. Allowed to bloom!”

Stiles cringed at the increasingly bad metaphors. Then he spotted his chance to make his case. Scott and Isaac had come together on the field, their helmets nearly touching as they exchanged a few words that Stiles couldn’t hear. He could see their faces clearly, though. He knew the flash of gold that passed between them was not his imagination, nor was it insignificant. No _way_ could Danny hope to understand Scott the way Scott needed. 

“You’re wrong!” Stiles shouted. He grabbed Coach’s arm and yanked him to face where the two werewolves were huddled, mindless of what Coach might see. “Now that’s a real partnership. Isaac and Scott have more in common than you can even begin to imagine. They need each other.”

Coach snorted and shook his head. “I know my players. As a coach, you learn things. You gotta be observant.” He made a V with his fingers and pointed toward his eyes and then out to the field. A sharp breeze ruffled through his brown hair, making him look like a wild man about to charge the field. “Scott and Danny. They belong together.”

Stiles wanted to point out that Coach “Gotta Be Observant” was missing some rather obvious details about his players, and that alone made any of his conclusions invalid, but he switched gears at the last second. “Yeah? Well, Scott’s my best friend,” he reminded him. “I know him better than anyone. Scott needs more than a-a-a handsome face and a cut body. He needs someone who will keep him on his toes. Someone who will remind him to have a little fun.” He could be talking about his own relationship with Scott, but he was not. He so totally was not. To make that clear to everyone who could possibly wonder otherwise, he pounded his fist into his hand and said, “Scott and Isaac, all the way.”

“McCall and Mahealani,” Coach shot back. “Their names match. We can call them M&M.”

Curling over at the waist, Stiles made exaggerated retching noises. “That’s too much sweet,” he countered on straightening up. “I mean, Danny’s a great guy and all, and he deserves someone who will be good to him.” For a second, his mind flashed on an image of himself in that role. A shake of his head dislodged the image before he could dwell on it; he had no chance of that ship ever sailing. He continued: “But Scott and Danny together is just—“ His hands worked the air while he searched for the word, as if to pluck it from the cold. “—Cloying.” With emphasis on the sticky sounds, he repeated the word again for good measure. “Clllloyyyying.”

Coach didn’t look impressed at the display of vocabulary. “You get something that works, you _use_ it. You get lucky enough to find it twice—“ He jumped up, his arms thrown into the air as, this time, Danny passed Scott the ball and Scott took off for the goal. “Go M &M!”

Only through some well-timed, and violent, blocking on Isaac’s part did Scott get close enough to shoot. The shot sailed cleanly into the net and once again everyone was on their feet cheering. In the excitement, Stiles might have been the only one who noticed Isaac brush past Danny and whisper something, his eyes flicking back toward the stands as he did. 

Taking Isaac and Scott’s play as a sign, Stiles crowed, “What were you saying about teamwork? I told you that sharing a letter of the alphabet isn’t all there is!” He stalked closer to Coach, daring now to get right into his face. This close, he could see the gray of Finstock’s eyes and matching grays scattered through his hair, and he suddenly felt no shame about adding more. “You want your players to smoosh their names together? How about Scisaac?!”

Coach puffed up his shoulders like a defensive bird. “Scisaac? That sounds like a skin disease. You got a skin disease, Stilinski? You got another reason I should keep you on the bench?” Coach was nose-to-nose with him now, shouting back into Stiles’s face. The game played on around them, though neither were paying attention anymore. “If there’s going to be any pairing up under my watch, it’s going to be Scanny.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Again I say, you’re joking?” He chopped the air with his hands and bounced once on the balls of his feet in emphasis. “You expect me to take that name seriously? It sounds like something you’d do at a copy shop. It’s _boring_. You need texture. Danny and Isaac could work. Maybe. But there’s nothing better than McLahey.” And that sounded like a hamburger brand, Stiles thought, questioning whether he should ever use that that particular portmanteau again—though there was something in it about eating…or being eaten…or….

“Scanny,” Coach interrupted. He set his stance, planted his hands on his hips. His clipboard was pressed tight to his side, its edge digging in through layers of coat and sweater in a way that was probably going to leave a bruise. He deserved it, Stiles thought, if it would help him remember the error of his thinking.

Stiles felt his jaw tensing, the coach’s stubbornness hardening his muscles more than the night air. “McLahey,” he forced out between clenched teeth. Then, for greater measure, he added, “Scissac.”

A whistle blew, interrupting Stiles’s and Finstock’s standoff. They turned to see the teams pouring off the field. The timer on the scoreboard showed that the quarter was over. BHHS players headed for the water and the heating pads, having apparently decided that they didn’t need the coach to tell them what to do.

All except for Danny, Isaac, and Scott.

Stiles felt a blush spread through his chest and face at the sight of the three boys approaching. The heat would have been a welcome off-set from the cold if not for the embarrassment that came with it. He crossed his arms tight and prayed that the two with supernatural hearing had _not_ been listening.

Danny pulled his helmet off and tucked it up under his arm. Scott and Isaac flanked him as he came closer, their helmets also coming off. They drew to a stop with Danny out front, clearly designated as the point man. Seeing the discomfort on Scott’s face and the amusement on Isaac’s, Stiles realized that they had heard everything. In fact, remembering how Coach had been shouting, Stiles suspected that Danny had heard everything too—and, oh god, he was never going to live this down. Stiles shot a glance at the coach whose reddened face could have been from cold or embarrassment, and who had stepped behind Stiles as if in a weak effort to hide. Stiles took a giant step out of the way, re-exposing the Coach to the other players’ scrutiny.

Danny cleared his throat loudly, and cut his gaze first to Scott, who shrugged, and then to Isaac, whose lips curled into a knowing smile. At last Danny looked squarely at Coach and said, “Just for the record: It’s McMahealahey.”

Coach sucked in an audible breath, followed by a small noise that could only be a whimper of disappointment.

Stiles started to pump his arm, a cheer half-formed on his lips from—well, he hadn’t exactly _won_ the argument, but Coach had definitely _lost_ , and that’s what was important. Then he noticed that Scott was looking not at Coach, but at him. The cheer stilled, he lowered his arm, trying to pretend he’d never had it extended at all. His thoughts raced as he tried to figure out if he was about to get chided or mocked—not that Scott would ever do either of those things. Much.

Scott’s eyebrows twisted up as if the start of an apology and he said something. Stiles was already preparing to brush it off, to reassure his best friend that of course he was supportive of his choices, when the syllables processed.

“—inski?” Scott had said.

Danny nodded once, and Isaac’s smile took on a far less sinister quality. 

The clipboard hit the ground with a muted thump. “I give up.” Coach stated. “I quit. No one listens to me. I don’t know why I even try.” With that, he turned and stalked off toward the remaining team, who had assembled on the farthest end of the bench as if knowing that this was one discussion they needed to stay well out of. Even as Coach retreated, Stiles could hear him muttering, “Scanny. That’s all I wanted. And _this_ is what I get.” He waved his arms in dismissal of the failed matchmaking.

Stiles turned back to the other three, Coach’s sore loser ramblings nowhere near as interesting as the offer on the table. “Do you mean it?” Danny was still watching Coach’s retreat with a bemused expression, but Isaac wasn’t. His gaze was traveling up and down Stiles’s body in a manner that was both alarmingly predatory and very, very hot. “This is something you actually want? That you’ve talked about?” Stiles’s voice rose with each question and he had to stop talking before it turned into a squeak. Yet the questions just kept piling up unsaid.

Scott smiled, his wide, “everything’s awesome” grin that imprinted his dimples deep into his cheeks and brought Stiles’s thoughts to a standstill. “Of course,” he replied, as if it were exactly that simple.

Stiles pulled his arm down for another attempt at that fist pump, the windup building to the start of the loudest cheer of his life.

“It seems like a perfect balance,” Danny interjected. “With enough variety to keep everyone happy.”

Stiles gulped.

Before he could say anything, Isaac interrupted with a “Guys?” and a gesture that brought their attention to the far end of the bench. Greenberg was grinning and flashing a triumphant thumbs’ up at a clearly disgruntled coach, who was slumped defeated, despite the team’s leading score, onto the bench. Greenberg said something Stiles couldn’t hear. But Isaac could. His voice laden in confusion, Isaac asked, “What’s an OT4?”


End file.
